


it’s hard being a kid and growing up it’s hard and nobody understands

by MystxMomo



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Coming to terms with Parental Imperfections, Gen, In which five teenage boys, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, and maybe learn to talk about feelings and stuff., are forced to mature through shared trauma, dads to be tagged as they pop up, editor what editor, in the worst possible way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-16 14:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystxMomo/pseuds/MystxMomo
Summary: There’s blood on the grass, on his clothes, against his teeth.Grant Wilson has just killed someone.





	it’s hard being a kid and growing up it’s hard and nobody understands

**Author's Note:**

> So, these boys together would be absolute forces of chaos, and the fact that they were separated was for the safety of Forgotten Realms, not for theirs.  
Nah, but really. Anthony Burch did wonderfully in shaping these characters personality, and I got such vivid imagery for what their dynamics could be. I understand why they aren't in many scenes together. You know. I'm trying to imagine one person trying to voice the chaos of five characters sat together. But I want to see them interact!!  
So. Fanfiction. 
> 
> Also, forgotten realms doesn’t look like it has child labor laws. I bet a gaggle of 13 year old boys could wander around without going all, you know, lord of the flies on one another.  
Holy SHIT believe it or not I wrote the first part of this before episode 19 aired and I'm LOOSING My MIND. I CANNOT believe how hard I nailed this. Come @ me with your disbelief but I'm SCREECHING. 
> 
> Anyway welcome to my crib.

Lark Oak - Level One Cleric 

Sparrow Oak - Level One Warlock

Nicolas Close - Level One Rogue

Terry Junior - Level One Wizard

Grant Wilson - Level One Fighter

❋ ❋ ❋

Grant Wilson had gotten into a fight with his father the morning of the 3rd. 

A spat, really. It’s the sort of squabble that only comes from a man that finds no respect in being late, and a son that only sort of kind of cares about the sport he’s playing. It’s the worst fight he’d thought he’d get into today. It was a consistent, routine and trivial.

But there’s blood on the grass and a blade in his hand. He’s standing in a field of wildflowers and flames, smoke catching on dried grass like his sweat on warm iron. There’s a tick in his head, like a bomb, counting down with every moment he stares down at the stream of red and gore. The body isn’t decomposed enough to smell rot. It’s warm under foot, and still squishes against his touch. Despite that, something similar sticks in his nose and lingers. A whiff of a smell that reminds him of maggots, of the dead mice the feral cats sometimes leave at their doorstep. 

It reminds him of the blood between his fingers, and the red in his eyes.

“Grant?” 

His head hurts.

“You can uh- You can lay off now. We’re fine. The other two ran off,” The words fall through static. Broken, and sticking, “Terry is fine, We’re all uh… Jesus christ.”

There’s a tremble through his form. Shallow, unrestraint, and completely, uncontrollably involuntary.

“Hey, is he going to be okay?” He hears someone say, with the same sort of tilted concern that comes when he gets knocked too hard by a ball. It doesn’t feel like he’s gotten hit though. His head pounds with the light, like theres too much going on and it’s just another cherry on the cake of uncertainty.

When he brings his hand up to shield his gaze away from the light, red smears on his cheek. 

“I ‘unno,” The same voice, he thinks. Sounds a little different. Not by much, “Maybe try moving him away from the body? He looks like he’s gonna be sick.” 

Someone grabs his arms, and he blinks. Lets go of the blade. It stands stiff in place, and when someone attempts to guide him away it’s met with a stumble. 

“Hey uh, do you want to. Go sit down?” 

There’s blood on the grass, on his clothes, against his teeth. 

Grant Wilson has just killed someone.

“I.. I don’t…” His body speaks without his input, but in turn moves with the same force. There’s a ringing in his ears that he’s not sure anyone else can hear, echoing in his skull as palpable as a battering ram on wood. They pull him away from the scene with hurry, hands lingering on his arm and feet stumbling with his weight.

He vomits once. Kneels over in his spot until the weight of hallow panic and worry has stopped echoing through his bones, then vomits again for good measure. 

The ringing in his ears has stopped by the time someone speaks to him again. The stoner kid, he thinks, when he sees black painted nails on tanned skin and smells something he can barely pinpoint as weed. 

“Uh,” He says. Then, just to confirm his suspicion (Because he by no means trusts his eyes at the time) “Nick?”

“Drink,” Nicholas says. It’s not an order, but it sort of feels like one. When he looks up, he realizes Nick has this short look on his face, like it’s not really something he’s willing to compromise on. And, his stomach is still dropping, and head is still spinning, and you need to understand. Grant’s never had a drop of alcohol a day before a day in his _ life. _

_ . _

(Well, that’s also not entirely true. His dad has his own brew, and sort of slips him sips at times. Gets this stupid look on his face and won’t leave him the hell alone until he says, “Yes, dad, it tastes great!” even though it sort of tastes like piss and smells like vomit and he just wants to get back to playing fortnite or something.)

.

_ Holy shit _ , he thinks again. For good measure, _ I just killed someone. _

The bottle is already uncapped. It’s shoved close enough to his face that the smell of it burns his eyes.

He reaches over and steals the bottle, gulping down as much as he can before the alcohol burns his throat to the point that he’s forced back hacking out a lung. And, to Nick’s credit, it snaps him out of whatever stupor he’d been spiralling into. His nose wrinkles up, his eyes water, and he’s left gasping for some semblance of breath.

“Hey!! How come he gets some!?” One of the twins says (He doesn’t really know them well enough to say which, didn’t even realize he’d been standing there), around the same time Nick laughs out something of a startled, “Woah, okay, alright-”

“Where did you get this?” he asks. Mumbles it, really. Stares down at the bottle like it’s stabbed him personally, like it had forced itself onto his lips and made him drink. He drags his thumb around the top of the bottle in slow, calculated movements, wiping away spit and replacing it with.. Blood? 

“You know-” He doesn’t know, “The uh. Guy you stabbed had it on him?” He catches Nick making vague, loose gestures to the corpse. Smiles something guilty, but not guilty enough to have avoided handing him the bottle in the first place.

He takes another drink. He kind of wants to vomit again.

He wrinkles his nose again this time around, breaths out in a shiver. But he doesn’t like how the taste is already beginning to grow on him, doesn’t like that it’s what’s settling his stomach at the moment.

Lark. Uh. Sparrow?

The _ other _ twin, the one not standing over him like he’s waiting for him to give up the bottle, is standing over the body. Digging through it’s pockets like it’s the most natural thing to do in this situation. The sword still sticks out of his back, angled crooked and low. Like it’s made it’s home in flesh and bone.

And like.. He gets it. He plays, video games. Search the body, you know. But in the here, in the now. It feels wrong. Foreign. Despite being nowhere near the gore, he still tastes blood on his tongue.

‘“Lark! Lark, this guy has a knife!!”

… That one must be Sparrow, then. He tries to note that in the back of his mind. It won’t stick- feels like white noise, in the moment. 

Lark lights up in front of him, already distracted from the disappointment of having his turn of alcohol taken from him, “We don’t need it! We have magic fingers!! Magic fingers that we can summon cool lasers with!” And then he darts off. And he’s left alone with Nick. 

“Sorry,” He says, after the silence grows too thick, and he realizes he’s not going to be able to stomach anymore of the bottle in his hands, “I don’t need this. Can you just…” He goes to shove it into Nick’s hands, but realizes too late that the other needs to fumble to catch it. A little tips out the side, scattering across the ground around them. Nick shoots him a dirty look, but it’s noncommittal and apathetic at best. 

“Where are we?” He finally asks, scrambling to pull himself up and off the ground. To at least pull himself away from the corpse. It only sort of works. He has enough energy in him to turn away from it, but not enough to move much farther from the spot he’d been sitting. He didn’t know much about drinking, but he was near sure it shouldn’t effect him as quickly as it did. 

“No clue!” 

“What happened here?”

“Still figuring that out,” 

If he feels bad about the vague sort of answers he’s giving, Nick gives no hint or implication of that thought. But he supposes that’s just fine, because the questions he gives are robotic at best, and half hearted at worst. Nick takes his own swing of the bottle, squinting to try and read the label. 

A little under half the bottle is already gone. He’s almost positive it was near full when Nick had handed it off his way.

He feels woozy. 

“You’re helpful,” he says, but the tone of his voice comes off as far less venomous than he’d intended. Instead he sounds.. Weak. It’s enough that Nick turns his gaze from the bottle back to his face, actually dares to look him in eyes. 

“I woke up around the time you dashed forward to put blade through a guy,” Nick tells him, flops onto the ground next to him with the casualty of someone who’s seen this all before.

“I know-- eesssshhhhhh, maybe about as much as you do right now.” He takes the alcohol far smoother than Grant had, in quick, heavy gulps. If there’d been a little under half the bottle before, it’s near gone now, and Grant no longer feels bad about how much he’d stolen in his trauma.

Grant breaths. Nick laughs, though there’s no humor in it, “Oh man,” He says, flops back into the bed of flowers like he hopes it will cushion his fall, “We’re totally fucked!”

At least someone said it. 

There’s still smoke in the air, and it doesn’t take Grant more than a moment to realize it’s only growing. Blooming across the otherside of the field in an uncontrolled frenzy. If the twins are bothered by how close it seems to be pulling to them, neither of them give it any mind. In fact, one of them turns to send a stick spinning into the flames.

There’s a hole in the back of his throat. It burns with the fuel of his confusion, settles in a way that burns down his throat. He thinks, if he’s not careful, it might just overtake him.

The sword is still stuck in the man’s gut, and It somehow bothers him less.

“So,” He rests his chin against his knee. Something in him calms, “What’s this about lazer fingers?”

Nick pulls himself off the ground. Finishes off the bottle with a final swing, like it’s an unearned victory, “Ask them,” It’s not insistence, the way he says that. Instead, it’s blunt, it’s careless, and he walks away without another word to him.

Grant lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  
  
  


“Uh. Hey.” 

When Terry speaks, he jumps. He’d forgotten he was here. Terry tilts his head down, but his eyes linger on the body. Studying it like he hadn’t even been looking at his phone throughout their entire interaction together, “Thanks. For stabbing them. Uh...” His hands grip his sleeve. 

If he catches the shine of blood on the others clothing, swiped against a pantleg like he’d rid himself of dirt, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he simply nods in shallow slow motions, and finally finds the strength to pull himself up right. 

They need to move, he thinks, before the flames overtake them.

❋ ❋ ❋

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @MystxMomo like all these kids on social media's 
> 
> Future chapters will be longer. Sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes.


End file.
